


The One

by indiefic



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: F/M, Jack Thompson not getting it, Peggy Carter hatefucking Jack Thompson, Very Steggy friendly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-25 19:00:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4972648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indiefic/pseuds/indiefic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marge is the one.  But things need to change.  So Jack Thompson pays an unscheduled visit to his lover on a cold March night and gets far more than he bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One

Marge is the one.  Jack’s known it for a while now and it’s getting to the point where he can’t not do something about it.  It’s been more than a year since they started sleeping together and the sex is better than ever.  But Marge is a prickly bird.  Hell sometimes he doesn’t feel like he’s dating a bird at all.  He feels like Marge would be more at home in the men’s locker room than a bridal boutique.  For all the lip service that chivalry and flowers and candy gets, Marge doesn’t want any of that.  She likes a stiff drink and stiff cock and that’s about it, far as he can tell.

 

Jack still gives her hell about Captain America sometimes, mostly to keep up appearances, but he’s knows the truth of that.  There was never anything between them.  Jack didn’t know Cap.  But he knows guys who did, or at least guys who were around him a fair bit.  To hear them tell the tale, Rogers really was as good as the stories say.  Perfect gentleman, loyal to a fault, willing to lay down on the wire for the other guy, always did the right thing.  There are stories about some flirtation between Cap and Marge, but Jack doesn't buy it.  

 

The story about Marge shooting Cap, now Jack does buy that one.  She’s a bitch.

 

But he loves her.  

 

He thinks.  

 

He certainly wants to keep fucking her and neither of them are getting any younger.  He wonders what kind of mother she’ll make.  Not a great one, he suspects, but then his own mother was pretty shit and he turned out okay.

 

Part of him wants to have a wedding just so she’ll have to kiss him in public.  She never kisses him, which pisses him off.  He’s always loved using his mouth, it’s half the fun of fucking.  But she won’t have it.  He tried to force it one night, their second time together and she bit his tongue so hard he had to have stitches.  Couldn’t talk right for two weeks.  So now he doesn’t even try to kiss her.

 

It’s not that she won’t use her mouth.  She will.  In a startling variety of ways.  For all her proper English deportment, Peggy Carter is the dirtiest girl Jack has ever fucked.  And he’s fucked a lot of girls.  Quite a few of them trained professionals.  Peggy’s got ‘em all beat by a mile.  She’ll do anything and all without so much as a blush.  She has no shame.

 

Squeaky clean Captain America wouldn’t have any idea what to do with a girl like that.  Luckily, Jack does.  

 

Marge likes it rough and he’s happy to oblige.  Or he usually is.  Every now and then he wishes they could take it easy, that she didn’t have to be half plastered before they fuck.  But she doesn’t like it slow and soft.  And any time he tries to initiate the proceedings, she shuts him down completely.  It’s her terms or no terms.  So far he’s played along, but he’s getting really tired of it.  Especially if he’s gonna marry her.  They’ve got to get this sorted out.

 

So Jack does something he never does.  On a cold March evening, he shows up at her place unannounced and uninvited.  He wants to shake things up.  

 

Marge answers the door in her robe and she’s already holding a drink in her hand.  From the glassy look in her eyes, he suspects she’s several drinks ahead of him.  But his plan is already working because rather than slamming the door in his face, like she normally would, she steps aside and lets him in.

 

Marge’s place is phenomenal.  A handout from Howard Stark.  Jack has never asked what, exactly, Marge did for Howard to warrant a place like this, mostly because he doesn’t want to hear the answer.  He already knows, of course, knows that she did Howard over good.  Marge may not be a teenage Hollywood ingenue, but she’s got them all beat in the bedroom, or the dining room table, or the backseat of a company car.  Innocence is overrated in Jack’s book and he suspects Howard’s as well.

 

Marge is in a mood.  Jack can tell.  She’s definitely not one that’s prone to melancholy, but there’s something about her tonight, something soft and worn and Jack likes it a hell of a lot.  He shrugs out of his jacket, drapes it over the back of one of Howard Stark’s fancy chairs and goes to her.  She looks up at him, drink in hand.  And when he leans down for a kiss, she doesn’t pull away.  She meets him, soft and sure and full of surrender.

 

Jack had no idea how much he craved this.  He sighs, pressing into her, gentle like.  She sucks in a breath and threads her fingers through his hair, eyes closed tight.  Jack takes the glass out of her hand and sets it on a nearby endtable.  She doesn’t complain.  She just kisses him and goddammit, he knew she was a good kisser.  With a talented mouth like that, how could she not be?  Her lips and tongue work against his, so soft.

 

He breaks the kiss and it takes her a moment.  She stands there, eyes closed, biting down on her bottom lip.  He thinks for a minute that she’s going to cry, but then she opens her eyes.  She only looks at him for a moment before she looks away again.  Maybe she’s embarrassed to admit she needs him like that.  Fine.  He doesn’t need to make a show of it.  At least not right now.  He takes her hand, guides her through dimly lit rooms until they reach her bedroom.

 

His hand goes for the lamp, but she stops him.  This is new too.  Marge generally likes the lights on, everything in full view.  But he goes with it.  Lights off.  He removes her robe and then helps her take off his clothes.  When he’s naked, he presses against her, his hands smoothing over the silk nightgown she still wears.  She’s so soft, so yielding that he curses himself for not doing this sooner, not coming over here and taking charge.  Clearly, she was just waiting for it.  He knew that underneath it all, she was a bird just like all the others.

 

He skims the straps of the nightgown down her arms and lets the fabric pool in a circle around her feet.  She touches him gently, his jaw, his hair, his hips, his ass.  He wonders if she’ll be like this on their wedding night.

 

He shoves the bedcovers to the foot of the bed and scoots Marge toward it.  She climbs in, laying there quiet, waiting for him.  She’s so fucking beautiful he can just barely stand it, there in the dim light, shadows playing over the peaks and valleys of her form.  He’s waited his whole life for a woman like her and now he finally has her, just the way he wants her.

 

He goes to her and she opens her arm, welcoming him.  He kisses her and she responds eagerly, making these breathy little whines he’s never heard.  For once, she doesn’t try to shove him onto his back, doesn’t try to dominate the proceedings.  She lets him be in charge, setting the pace.

 

And to his own surprise, the pace he wants to set isn’t one of dominance and dominion.  It’s soft and intimate.  He loves her slowly, caressing her, exploring her in ways she’s never allowed.  They’re both trembling when he finally covers her and slides home.  God, she’s so wet, so hot.  It’s too much for him and he doesn’t tease.  He uses his hands, rubbing her as he sets a deep, steady rhythm.  He’s close, so close, but she gets there first, her fingernails biting into his back, her legs tightening around his waist.  She says a name.

 

Except that it’s not _his_ name.

 

She says, “ _Steve_ ,” as she comes, shivering beneath him.

 

Jack stops mid-stroke, looking down at her.  She recovers slowly.  And then seems to realize what she’s done.  She plants her palm in the middle of his chest and shoves him off her as hard as she can. He rolls onto his side and she’s out of the bed in a flash, running to the attached bathroom, slamming the door shut.  He can hear her retching inside, vomiting into the bowl.  

 

Jack sits there on the bed, knees drawn up, cock still hard.  He drags a hand through his hair.  

 

_Steve._

 

Steve Rogers.  Captain America.

 

The guy Jack was so sure she’d never been involved with.  Jack shakes his head, feeling like an idiot.  Today’s the anniversary of his disappearance.  Two years.  Two years he’s been gone and she was thinking of him when Jack fucked her tonight, pretending Jack was him.  That is why she was soft and compliant.  For him.  For a dead man.  For Captain fucking America, Marge will play nice.  

 

The bathroom door opens and she stands there.

 

“So, guess you two did have a thing,” Jack says.

 

“Get out,” Peggy snaps.  “It’s over.  Get out and stay out.”

 

Jack shakes his head.  He’s got a couple hundred dollars saved up for a wedding ring and Marge just tried to kick him out of her life.  “He’s dead, ya know,” Jack says.  “He’s never coming back.”

 

“Yes,” she says bitterly, “I know.”

 

“Look, Peg,” he says, “I know that what we got isn’t ... perfect.”

 

She laughs mirthlessly.

 

“But,” he says, cutting across her, “it’s real.  It’s a man and woman and I think we have a shot.”

 

She shakes her head, crossing the room, flipping on the lamp.  She’s standing there naked, but she might as well be wearing armor for all the vulnerability it imparts.  “A shot?” she says incredulously.  “A shot at what?  Making each other miserable for the rest of our lives?”

 

“Hey,” he snaps.  “It’s not like that.”

 

“It’s exactly like that,” she says, glaring at him.  “I _hate_ you.  You embody the most loathsome characteristics of the male sex.”

 

Jesus Christ.  He knew Marge didn’t pull her punches, but that’s harsh even for her.  “ _Peggy_ ,” he says in a warning tone.

 

She shakes her head.  “The only reason I fuck you is _because_ I hate you.  Because there is nothing about you that reminds me of him.  You are his opposite in every way.  You’re a self-centered, infantile, petty bully who brings out the worst in those around him.”

 

He can’t help it.  He actually flinches.  Sweet fucking Christ.

 

“I’ve lost myself in you, in using you to hurt myself, in the hopes that it would distract me from how much I miss him.  But it’s all for naught.  And all I’ve done is lower myself to your level.  And I still miss him so much I feel like the weight of it might crush me.”

 

He just stares at her, wondering how he managed to completely misread this situation.  He was actually going to ask her to marry him.  And one look at her face convinces him that every word she speaks is true.  She does hate him, loathes the very sight of him.

 

He shakes his head and slowly pushes himself off the bed, dressing in silence.  She stands there, unmoving, unrelenting.  She isn’t going to take back those words.  She means them.

 

“I, uh, I’ll see myself out,” he says without looking at her.  He heads for the front door and he can hear her crying, but he knows it’s not for his benefit.

 

At least he didn’t buy the damn ring yet.

 

END STORY


End file.
